Pre-Milliways
A car sits quietly at the side of a road. It is night, and the vehicle is obscured behind the curves of an empty road which snakes along the edge of a coastline, the pristine blue waters of day now dark in the night, reflecting the light of the stars. Headlights announce the arrival of a car on the adjacent road. It speeds past the intersection, the purr of the motor remaining audible seconds after the car has passed.
Then, abruptly, comes a loud pop, and the squeal of tires skidding across asphalt. An audible crunch follows. So, too, does the obscured car. It drives up the adjacent road in the direction of the other car, and finds this car a short distance away, smashed against the side of a rising slope. Its four passengers are outside, brushing themselves off. Three circle the wreckage, another reaches for his cell phone. The car that was once obscured pulls up beside them. Its passenger, a blonde man in his late 30’s, emerges from the driver’s seat and approaches the wreck. The man on his cell phone gives a cursory glance to the newcomer and waves down one of the men examining the wreckage, then gives no more attention to him.
It’s only when he hears three shots fired in rapid succession that he gives the newcomer any attention. By then, the newcomer is headed towards him, gun aimed at his face. He throws up his hands, dropping his cell phone on the road. Now he could shoot the other man, or he could run away. He could do both if the gunman didn’t have him in plain sight. So he stands, and waits until the gunman comes close enough for him to kick-to the gunman’s crotch, leg, or arm, it didn’t matter as long as it connected. Unfortunately for him, his foot connects with the gunman’s hands too quickly for him to avoid being flipped over, both feet leaving the ground. His body soars through the air, lands hard on the road. The initial pain paralyzes him. He can just barely turn his head enough to see the gunman kneel beside him with a needle, which he sticks in the man’s arm.
It’s a tranquilizer.
He slips into unconsciousness.
--
As his consciousness returns, so, too, does the pain.
He’s in a richly decorated room, bright gold paint on the walls behind dark red, plush chairs, gold-lined tables and dark wooden stands. A wide window overlooks the water and the winding road on the coast. In front of that window sits the gunman, casually playing a game of cards. He looks up as the man, Harrison, stirs in the chair.
Everything about the gunman, except for his clothes, suggests brutality. He looks like a pitbull, with his round head, attentive blue eyes and a mouth that was set in a perpetual pucker-lipped pout. Stubby hands reach over the table to pick up a card, hands that could snap a man in two at the first order. The gunman is wearing a finely-tailored navy suit and vest that gives him the absurdity of a dog playing poker. This is a thug who has fashioned himself into a gentleman. Absurd, but no less intimidating. “Who are you?” Harrison mumbles.
Even from here Harrison can see the twinkle of mockery in the gunman’s eyes. “A mutual friend,” the gunman says, in what must be a thug’s idea of a gentleman’s voice. There was charm in it for sure, and an undercurrent of violence that set Harrison on edge. Every silky-tongued utterance would come through the barrel of a gun. There was no way this gunman could be a mutual acquaintance, not unless he was also a hitman. But what had he done to deserve assassination? “I believe you know Mr. White?” the gunman asked.
Harrison froze. Mr. White. He had been headed towards Mr. White’s house before this thug picked him up. They were going to discuss the money and how to disperse it, first between themselves, then amongst their clients. Mr. White must have decided not to share the money. It wasn’t in his nature to do so, but the temptation of money could change a man, and this was quite a large sum of money.
Harrison takes a few breaths before replying. “I am,” he says. “What business do you have with him?”
“Unfinished. He stole some money from me, and by me I mean the British government.”
Harrison wasn’t capable of much motion in his chair, but he freezes all the same. His subsequent attempt at laughter is not convincing. “What are you, a tax collector? I didn’t think the British government used that kind of muscle to collect money.”
“Not when the money stolen is being handed to terrorists.”
A pause. Harrison tries to keep his face expression-free. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A smirk cracks on the face of the gunman. “No. You wouldn’t, because you’re going to deny every connection you have to a terrorist organization in order to cover your ass.”
“What if I were telling the truth?”
“You aren’t. Your friend’s told me as much.”
“My friend?”
The smirk cracks wider, and the gunman stands up, strolling towards a closet close to where Harrison is tied up. Without pause the gunman swings the door open-and Harrison jerks back in the chair and screams.
It’s Mr. White in that closet. Mr. White, bloody and beaten, tied in a chair, mouth gagged. The gunman gives Mr. White a hard slap against the cheek. Mr. White wakes with a start and a gasp of pain. Bloodied slits look out to Harrison, then dart down to the floor. It’s the one look he’d never expect from Mr. White: the look of shame.
The other man-the thug, the hitman, tax collector or whatever the hell he was-still has that mocking smirk on his face. “He told me all about you, about your connections and what you do, especially what you do with the money.” He slams the closet door shut, taking a few steps closer. “Now you can deny that to me all you’d like. It doesn’t matter. I have friends, too, and they’re coming soon. Maybe in a few minutes. An hour. But soon. And when they’re through with you, you won’t deny who and what you know. You’re going to give us names.”
The laughter, this time, is convincing. It’s throaty and defiant and disbelieving, and the gunman continues to smirk as if he’s in on the joke. “I’m not going to tell your friends anything,” Harrison replies, and laughs again. Laughs for a few moments more until something hard smashes against the side of his face, until everything fades to black.
--
“Where’s your location?”
“Second floor. There’s a room to the right of the stairs that takes up half of the second level. I’m in there with the suspects.”
“We’re coming in. Excellent work, 007.” Yeah, that’s what they always said. Without so much as a thank you, James Bond ends the call and waits for this little envoy of the MI6 to catch up with him. Harrison had been unconscious for an hour, leaving Bond with nothing more to do than play more solitaire. He had searched through all of White’s possessions, through all of Harrison’s, and had found all the information he could get. It was all saved on a disc laying on the table before him. He didn’t budge as he heard clunky footsteps climb the stairs, about five pairs in all. They were lucky it was just him and the two bound suspects in the house. Had anyone else been in there, a bodyguard or hired muscle, they all would have been dead. Not that he had any claim to being subtle, himself.
The door swings open and he looks up to see a line of darkly clothed agents and, behind them…Jeffery Brooks. Also known as 005. Bond drops the card he had been holding and stands up, walking towards Brooks. “What are you doing here?” he asks in what hoped is a voice far removed from the annoyance he feels. Not even secret agents were immune to having coworkers they despised, and Jeffery Brooks, with his perpetual smug-faced look that never failed to intensify in Bond’s presence, is, perhaps, Bond’s least favorite person in the MI6. He’s the kind of person you hope will fail despite knowing he’s as good as he thinks he is.
Tonight, that annoying look is at its zenith. Why, Bond doesn’t know. He hasn’t done anything particularly impressive lately, though he wouldn’t put Brooks past being smug over what happened in Venice. Oh, he would never be so careless as that, to let the wool be pulled over his eyes the way they were pulled over Bond’s. At least Bond wasn’t as impulsive as Brooks thought he was, otherwise Brooks would have had a fresh bruise as a memoir of just walking in to this room. When Brooks opens his mouth to respond to Bond’s question, he opens it wide enough to reveal his bright, straight teeth. “M’s orders, I’m afraid. I’m taking over the case.”
Bond goes very still. “You’re what?”
“I’m taking over the case. M says you’re too emotionally involved.” Audaciously, Brooks reaches over to clasp Bond on the shoulder. “Perhaps you should go home, take a vacation or something.”
The look that flashes across Bond’s face would terrify stronger men than Brooks, but Brooks continues to smile smugly as he pulls his hand back and walks away. Even through his anger he can hear Brooks mutter orders to the other agents, though he’s too distracted, too deep in disbelief, to really digest what he’s saying. Because it’s not like him to just let an investigation drop, and it’s just not right to let him go from an investigation he’s so knee-deep in. M knew what he was like, knew how he worked and knew he could keep his emotions in check, so why didn’t she trust him now?
He turns on his heel and walks towards the table, picking up the disc and sliding it into his pocket before turning in the direction of the door. He doesn’t bother to say goodbye to Brooks, but pulls out his cell phone and proceeds to dial M’s number. He didn’t really care if she’d bitch him out for calling her. He had a bigger concern than her mere annoyance. The number dialed, he lifts the phone to his ear and pushes his way through the door-